


All the Things I Always Said I’d Be

by spacetrek



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, i just want them to talk to each other i really do, i love writing during road trips it's definitely great for my overall writing quality (it's not), set during that scene from the journal i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrek/pseuds/spacetrek
Summary: “We need to have a real conversation.”“And that involves yelling?”“With us?  Yeah, probably.”Stan and Ford + some difficult topics and actual communication.  They’ll get it eventually.





	All the Things I Always Said I’d Be

They’re in Ford’s study, the one on the floor above the basement (and what do you even call that? Half-basement?), and Stan’s got this stupid thought that he’d love to erase his memories of what this place looks like.

It’s got a desk and shelves and Ford’s usual probably-mostly harmless clutter everywhere. That’s fine.

What’s not fine is all the Bill stuff, and that’s what they came down here to get.

Ford wouldn’t look at him during the elevator ride, and he won’t look at him now. He’s already in the back, picking things up and throwing them into a pile.

Stan wonders how he’s doing, mentally, and the only answer he’s got is ‘better than he was doing when he collected this stuff,’ and that’s probably true.

(Stan used to say Ford was obsessed with stuff when they were kids, and he probably was, but it was nothing like his preoccupation with Bill. This was just unhealthy, bordering on compulsive, and Stan tries very hard not to think about what might have driven Ford to replace any beneficial hobbies or relationships with a demon triangle).

The kids are upstairs wrestling with a rug ten times their size and a few little knickknacks because Ford didn’t want them down here, and Stan can see why. He doesn’t really want to be down here, either.

Still, the sooner they pack up, the sooner they can get back to the kids. Stan grabs something – a little statue made from some kind of cold, white metal – and tosses it into Ford’s pile.

They work in silence until Stan can’t take it anymore.

“I’ve seen rooms with worse decoration, y’know.”

He’s already wincing before the last words leave his mouth. It sounds thoughtless, but it’s not and he knows it even if Ford doesn’t, and that makes it worse. He’s just… gotta test something.

A week ago a jab like that would have riled Ford up, gotten him snarking or snapping, but now his fingers just twitch and he looks away.

Test failed, and Stan is suddenly, irrationally angry.

Ford’s been so careful around him since Weirdmageddon and he hates it. He worked his ass off for thirty years to get _Ford_ back, not this quiet, deferential shell of his best friend. He wants his brother; brilliant, impatient, occasionally clueless but always determined Stanford.

He’s tempted to keep pushing, just to see what it’ll take to get Ford to push back, but even as frustrated as he is, he knows this isn’t the time for it. Not now, not while they’re surrounded by tangible reminders of his brother’s thirty-year waking nightmare.

He can’t make himself leave the problem to sit and fester any longer, either, so he’ll have to be tactful. No fighting, just talking. Ford’s as sick of arguing as he is; it shouldn’t be too hard.

“Ford?” he says, trying for casual.

It doesn’t work. Ford, already wound up from being around reminders of Bill, looks immediately suspicious. “Yes, Stanley?”

He forgot just how difficult Ford can be when he decides he doesn’t like a topic, or Stan’s tone, or the phases of the moon, or whatever weird and probably oddly precise methodology Ford has for his stubbornness. Maybe he should have just picked a fight.

No; he’s already committed to being polite. He forges on. “You haven’t, uh, talked too much about Bill.” Ford hasn’t talked at all about Bill. Everything Stan knows about the whole mess is inferred, or from Dipper, or from Bill himself. “You ran into him some time ago, right?”

Ford sets a glass pyramid down in the pile with a clink, steady and deliberate. He doesn’t look at Stan. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Stan’s temper kicks right back up with that, but he bites down on his automatic retort. No fighting. “C’mon, Ford.”

Ford does look at him then, a split-second glare of warning and then gone. “I’m not in the mood right now, Stanley.”

“You’re never in the mood!” The hell with no fighting. He didn’t learn theoretical physics and get amnesia, however temporary, for his brother to shut him out all over again.

Ford turns on him, and Stan can read anger in his clenched fists and tight jaw, but still he holds back. If Stan wasn’t so mad about Ford’s self-control he’d be impressed at it. “I have no interest in rehashing a mistake that nearly doomed the world and killed my family.”

“Why not? We fixed the mistake!”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

Stan’s mouth runs right on ahead of his brain. “You’re right, Stanford, I have no idea what it’s like to think I screwed up and ruined my brother’s life forever! And it’s not like I’ve ever stayed awake at night wondering if you were dead or anything!”

Ford looks like Stan slapped him, and Stan has just a moment to remember why he didn’t want to start a fight before Ford’s expression shuts down and he brushes past, body stiff as a board, to the elevator.

No no _no,_ not this, not now–

“Ford–” _I didn’t mean it_ dies in his throat, because he did mean it, if a little nicer. But one of the things he promised himself during one of those many sleepless nights was that if he ever saw Ford again, he’d be more honest with him. “Wait.”

Miraculously, Ford listens, standing silent in front of the elevator. He even turns sideways a little, actively listening.

Stan’s desperate to get that frozen look off his brother’s face, but he doesn’t know how. When they were kids he used to just _know_ what Ford needed, but it’s been so long he’s not sure what to say. “I– that was stupid. I thought a fight would fix things, but… I just want you back.”

Ford’s expression thaws a little, confused. “You have me. I promised. Did I–”

“You didn’t do anything, and that’s– that’s kinda the thing.” Stan’s beginning to realize that he probably should have planned this conversation ahead of time. Story of his life. “Maybe we just need to yell at each other, y’know?”

Ford stares blankly. “Did we not yell at each other enough when I got back?”

He sounds so genuinely bewildered that Stan has to bite down on a laugh. “Not like that. I don’t mean all-out screamin’ and punchin’, I mean a real conversation.”

“And that involves yelling?”

“With us? Yeah, probably.”

Ford turns all the way around, looking a little rueful. “We did yell at each other a lot, even when we were kids.”

“Yeah, but that yelling usually ended with water balloon fights, not more yelling.”

Ford eyes him. “Are you asking for a water balloon fight?”

“Are you offering?”

“If that’s what–”

“And here we go again.” Cards on the table. “Ford, you’ve been acting– weird.”

“What? For how long? Have I–” His eyes flick to the heap of Bill-related junk and his whole body tenses like busted suspension cable.

“Whoa, Ford, not like that!” Stan crosses the room in a second, puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Ford’s still stiff and unhappy, but he isn’t shaking or pulling away, so he’ll probably calm down quickly. “You’ve just been… really nice, lately.”

“You think I’m acting weird because I’ve been nice?”

“No! Well, sorta.” Ford is perfectly capable of being nice, and it’s not like he’s usually mean or anything, but his understanding of how people and their feelings work is… occasionally limited, and that leads to mishaps. “You’ve been tiptoeing around me since my brain got erased, and the VIP treatment was nice for a day or two, but.” He shrugs, wishing he could explain the whole thing better. “It’s not you.”

Ford is silent for a long moment, and Stan wonders if his brother even knows what he’s talking about. Maybe this is just how Ford is now. Maybe he really is just quiet and compliant these days.

Immediately post-portal Ford says otherwise, but the impending apocalypse would give anyone some personality strain.

“I thought,” Ford says at last, “it was what you wanted.”

“You thought I wanted you to just smile and nod and take it?” Stan immediately starts searching his still-settling memories, wondering what he could have said or done that would make Ford think that Stan just wanted him to sit down and shut up.

(He does, sometimes, a lot, but not permanently. Not for long. No matter how angry or exasperated he’s been with Ford over the years, he’s never wanted Ford to be anything but himself).

“Yes? No. Maybe.” Ford looks frustrated. One thing they can still relate to is how hard it is for both Stan and Ford to figure out what the hell Ford is trying to say. “You didn’t like how I was acting when you got me back – and I understand that,” he adds quickly, “I do. I was… not at my best.” Massive understatement, but at least they’re both in agreement here. “And then I– I thought I lost you, and it was my fault, and I wanted to make it up to you any way I could.”

Stan’s sure this all makes sense to Ford somehow, but he’s still got nothin’. “You were gonna make it up to me by being a yes-man?”

Ford scowls, but it’s halfhearted. He’s studying the floor like it’s the most interesting anomaly he’s ever seen. “If it was what you wanted. I owe you that much, and I didn’t want to keep upsetting and hurting you, so I thought if I just– behaved myself, things would eventually settle down and I’d figure out what to do from there.” A vague gesture. “I don’t want to lose you. Especially not if it’s something I can prevent myself.”

And those are all loaded sentiments if Stan’s ever heard them, but he’s mostly just stuck on the fact that Ford thinks he’s worth something like that.

He wants to say something meaningful, but what comes out is “Seriously?”

Ford winces, and yeah, that wasn’t a great start, but Stan’s not done yet. “Ford, I spent thirty years trying to get you back. _You,_ not some discount nice-guy knockoff.” Stan hooks an arm around Ford’s shoulders and, when he’s not rebuffed, reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Y’think I’d give up on you just because you yell and forget to eat and can’t talk to girls? Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

Ford offers that not-quite smile of his, the one the kids are slowly starting to replace with the real deal. “I’ve had worse ultimatums.”

It’s a weak joke, but it’s still a joke, the first one Ford’s even attempted toward Stan since he got back, and Stan’s ridiculously pleased. His brother is here, even if he’s not up to scratch yet, and that’s fine.

Stan’s had worse odds.

Ford chews his lip, a tic Stan hasn’t seen since they were eight years old, and suddenly pushes forward, throwing his arms around Stan’s shoulders.

A hug. Ford is hugging him.

Stan’s brain is slow to catch up, as usual, but his body knows what to do; his arms go up automatically to return the embrace.

“Thank you,” Ford whispers, face half-buried in Stan’s neck. “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before now. I’m sorry I hit you. I’m sorry for… a lot of things, really. I’ll do better, I promise. Thank you.”

Ford sounds choked up, like he’s about to cry. Stan’s doing one better – he’s already crying. “It's okay.  ‘M sorry, too. For a lot of things.”

Ford makes a rough noise that might have been a laugh in a different situation, and yeah, he’s definitely crying now. “I forgive you.”

Some part of Stan, something old and bruised, settles at that. He’s been living with that hurt for so long he didn’t even realize how bad it was until it started to heal. It still aches, but it’s a good ache, a relief, like stretching a cramped muscle.

He didn’t realize how much he needed an apology, and to be forgiven in return. He hopes it did something for Ford, too.

A shriek from upstairs startles them apart. Stan’s fists go up, nearly clocking Ford in the chin, and Ford elbows Stan in the gut trying to reach under his coat. They both look at each other. Stan swipes at his eyes and grins. Ford sheepishly straightens his coat.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!” It’s Mabel, shouting at the top of her lungs from upstairs. “You guys are taking _forever_.” A muffled sound that might be Dipper talking, and she adds, “The sun’s going down and we still have to drag all this stuff out into the woods and Soos got jumbo marshmallows!”

Stan’s got a dopey smile on his face listening to his niece talk, but Ford does too, so it’s okay. “We’re workin’ on it, pumpkin!” Ford makes a face, probably because Stan’s yelling right next to his head, and covers his ears. Stan ignores him. “We’ll be up soon!”

Dipper calls down next, at a volume less earsplitting than Mabel. “Can we get Soos and Wendy and start loading the truck?”

“Don’t drop anything!”

A chorus of “Okay, Grunkle Stan!”, a brief scuffling, and then silence.

Ford apparently got over himself at some point during the conversation because his hands are no longer over his ears when Stan turns to him. He’s still got that not-quite smile.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he mumbles. It sounds like he’s talking to himself.

“Have what?”

Ford blinks, like he’s just remembering that Stan is here. “A family,” he says. “A lot of things, to be honest.”

“I get that.” And he does. He just hates that Ford ever had to feel that way. He bumps his brother’s elbow, casual. “Good thing life never works out how you think it will, huh?”

Ford smiles, for real this time, and it’s almost like Stan remembers, honest and lopsided and happy.

“I think it worked out better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just hug it out guys Mabel and I believe in you  
> it was an hour and a half in the car back from vacation, and this is what I did with it. This thing is longer than most of what I write, so I gave it special snowflake status as its own story instead of sticking it in with the rest of my drabbles and whatnot
> 
> still has a song lyric for the title because I’m predictable; this one’s from “Warrior” by Paradise Fears


End file.
